


The Truth of Dreams

by por_queeee



Category: Watchmen (2009), Watchmen (Comic)
Genre: Dream Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel's dreams turn into something more than anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in 2009. Set post-Roche and pre-Keene although it doesn't particularly matter as far as the story goes.

The dream doesn’t always start the same, the beginning in fact rarely similar to its previous incarnation’s. Maybe it’s typical at the beginning; a nightmare, a falling dream, or maybe some other dime-a-dozen nocturnal fantasy.

Sometimes it’s more unique, more fitting; often he’s dreamed of soaring high above the ground on the wings of an owl, beak gaping to loose an ear splitting cry, body angling to swoop and snatch up criminals with a precision that is simultaneously beautiful and terrifying.

But it’s not the way the dream starts that matters, not its true essence or form. Either way it quickly changes, funnels into another type of dream entirely; his fall ends, his monster disappears, his wings morph back to arms, and he is just Daniel Dreiberg again. Daniel Dreiberg, naked and lying in what feels like a cloud, a yard of downy softness and perfection, pure white as far as the eye can see. He always remembers the sensations later, remembers how unsettlingly real the whole things feels. And then Rorschach is there, and the sheets develop shifting blots, oddly beautiful in their unforgiving distinctness.

This night is the same, a nightmare of penny-dreadful proportions shifting to the familiar bed of nothingness. One moment he’s lying there, eyes closed in bliss, the odd fabric molding to his bare skin perfectly. The next, his skin is prickling, the fabric changing, becoming more tangible. He opens his eyes and sees Rorschach, familiar fedora and ever-present purple pinstripe suit, and then the inky abyss begins to flow beneath him.

He can’t move, as if stuck in the sands of time, and it takes him several moments to even open his mouth and form the letter “R,” his nakedness for some reason not fazing him in the least. The black abyss below him shifts again and the blots on Rorschach’s face look like a smile, somehow comforting despite the macabre effect they cast in conjunction with the man’s unsettling silence.

The black stuff oozes upwards but he’s not scared, not scared because it’s all so very familiar somehow, and when the substance slips over his eyes like a blindfold he doesn’t even feel it. It’s as if his eyes are just closed, and he breaths slowly, level of anticipation corresponding exactly to his level of dread.

Daniel can feel someone kneel beside him, a depression in the otherwise smooth surface. He holds his breath, the next moment seemingly stretching on into infinity as he waits for the inevitable. The person beside him smells of leather and dank alleys, of stale sweat and blood, and Daniel knows that it’s Rorschach, the musky stench pervading his nostrils.

Finally a hand touches his chest, tentative in its initial caress, and time returns to normal, his arms and legs still beleaguered by the unseen force. He can’t move his arms or legs, can’t sit up or grab at the fingers that ghost over him with frightening precision. The cracked leather of Rorschach’s glove drags along his skin painstakingly slow, raising goose-bumps in its wake and drawing a sharp breath from Daniel’s parted lips. It progresses south, stopping in places to smooth almost appreciatively over bits of muscles and skin. Each stroke is met with a moan from Daniel, his head tossing to the side.

“Rorschach.” He says, a hint of desperation coloring his tone. The hand progresses down, down, down, unrelentingly slow and then the leather ghosts over the shaft of his already half hard member and he hisses, struggles to move but again fails. “Rorschach, please, please.” He begs between moans as the gloved hand continues its deliberate teasing caress, and he is most definitely fully erect at this point.

Rorschach shifts, so close now that his knees brush Dan’s sides. A shadow falls on him and as he opens his mouth to gasp again, the hand still working at him, pressing harder now, Rorschach’s other hand rests on the side of his face. Daniel presses his cheek against it with an appreciative mumble, bucking his hips up into the cool leather grip with pre-come as his only lubricant. Rorschach’s finger traces his lower lip as he lets out another cry, and it presses into his parted lips and oh god, the taste of the leather swirls on the back of his tongue and lingers there even once the intruding appendage is withdrawn.

As good as the leather feels on his blood rushed groin, and as amazingly kinky and appealing as the whole thing is, Daniel wants more. He wants to feel the other man’s skin against him and he bites his lip, whimpering as a finger passes over his head almost lazily.

“Please, Rorschach.” He begs breathily, thrusting up against his friend’s hand again in desperation. “Please, the glove… The glove, oh god take it off, take it off.”

There seems to be a pause in the other man’s tortuous ministrations and Daniel pants weakly, feeling the sweat beading on his brow and wishing terribly that he could open his eyes and see his partner, erection aching at the loss of contact. Finally, there’s a rustle and the hand returns. But now it’s not the cool smooth leather that begins to pump Daniel almost violently, instead rough textured skin, blisters and blunt fingertips and jagged nails dragging over him relentlessly.

“Fuck.” He grunts, pressing his head back against the nothingness, only able to thrust up into the hand jerkily while his legs and arms strain helplessly to move. “Oh fuck Rorschach, thank you, thank you.” He moans, and he’s terribly close already, mouth gaping and sightless eyes clenched shut so tightly that he swears spark dance over the lids.

When he comes he cries his partner’s name out with a fervent but unfulfilled need to touch the other man, and the hand stays on him, continuing to stroke everything it can get out of him throughout the ending quakes of his orgasm. He lies there afterwards, panting, and the hand is like a weight on his thigh.

He feels it pull away afterwards, and despite his heart, which threatens to thump straight out of his chest, he tries to sit harder than ever, tries to open his eyes. “Ror.” He mumbles, unable to get the rest of the name past his lips.

The odd blindfold is gone, and as he tosses his head back and forth, the world seeming to cave in on him, and his lids crack there’s a bit of moonlight glimmering in his sleep crusted eyes. The dream is over, just as real as ever, and his own semen is drying on his thighs and stomach.

He thinks he feels something move, thinks that there’s a shadow leaving his room, but by the time he manages to open his eyes and pull his shuddering body up against the headboard he’s alone. He groans when he looks down, sees the aftermath of his wet dream on his sheets and body, and he thumps his head back against the headboard with a dull thud.

“Damn it.” He says quietly to no one in particular, rubbing at his eyes. He should be over this by now, he’s not a fucking teenager anymore, shouldn’t be having this problem on what’s become a weekly basis. It’s almost like clock-work, and he’s getting tired of scrubbing at his sheets at 2 o’clock in the fucking morning just because he can never quite manage to get back to sleep after these little episodes.

He’s fantasized about his partner for what must be the 7th or 8th time, and as always it hits him with the impact of a freight train. “Rorschach.” He mumbles in annoyance, swinging his legs over the side of the bed lethargically and grabbing his glasses off the nightstand, sliding them on until there’s the familiar pressure on the bridge of his nose. “It has to be Rorschach of all people. Because it’s not already bad enough that I’m having… Having nocturnal emissions involving a man. No, of course not.”

He sighs and stands, stretching his arms behind his head and glancing at the sheets to assess the damage. Nothing too bad, apparently the brunt of it’s on him, and as he turns to lumber to the bathroom in hopes of grabbing a much needed shower, something catches his eye.

It can’t be what he thinks, and yet he turns anyways, brow knit up in confusion. He blinks once. He blinks twice.

Lying amongst the tangle of sheets is a single leather glove, splashed with semen. Dan walks over in disbelief, staring at the strange article as his senses flood with the memories of the dream. Daniel can tell just by looking that it’s Rorschach’s, and his mouth gapes in disbelief.

The first thought that springs into his dumbfounded mind is that the bastard _can_ get in without ruining his lock.


End file.
